Did Something Really Stupid
by Lesera128
Summary: When a person's in lust, they can't eat, think can't sleep, they can't think straight. In Brennan's case, she acts really, really stupid. This is how she explains herself and tries to make things right. Set during 4x03-The Man in the Outhouse. AU.
1. Pt I: I Know I Did Something Stupid

Did Something Really Stupid

By: Lesera128

Rated: M

Disclaimer: stares:: ::blinks:: ::stares again:: Yeah. I still don't own anything…but, you knew that from the stares, right?

Summary: When a person's in lust, it makes them do crazy things. They can't eat, think can't sleep, they can't think straight. In Brennan's case, she acts really, really stupid. This is how she explains herself and tries to make things right for herself by finally snagging Booth. Set during 4x03: "The Man in the Outhouse". AU.

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><p><span>Part I - I Know I Did Something Really Stupid<span>

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><p>I know.<p>

It doesn't have to be said. I promise you, as much as you think it needs to be said...well, really, it doesn't.

I know it already.

I screwed up. I made a mistake, and I screwed up badly.

_Very badly_.

I don't suppose it matters at the time I thought it was a perfectly logical and sound choice, right?

I had to do _something_, after all. I mean, I've been driving myself insane going in proverbial circles with each day that passes. I think, all in all, I've been doing a pretty good job considering the fact that it's been this way for almost two years. It's been that long, you know, since it happened.

Since I realized that I cared about him. Since I realized that I wanted him. Since I offered myself to him. Since he rejected me and chose Cam instead. Since he drew that damn line in the metaphorical space between us to make certain that we stayed separated. Since I realized that I didn't have a choice anymore. Since I realized I had to figure out someway to obliterate that line because I've come to the conclusion that I'll never stop wanting him, even if he doesn't want me right now.

And, I bet you didn't know, but...at it's most basic form, most purely deconstructed and oversimplified sense, that's why all this started.

So, in a way, it's all his fault, really.

But, still―I made a mistake…a really bad mistake, and I know it. I realize, and I'm going to take responsibility for it. I promise.

There _is_ a reason for what I've done, how I've behaved―an explanation of sorts. Does that make any difference? I'm going to fix things, too. I'm working on that―on a plan. Does that make any difference, either?

I'm sure I could pull out some famous historical quote here about how people do really stupid things where they're in lust with someone. After all, human beings have been doing stupid things because of sex since the very first hominids walked up right and grunted at each other, I'm certain.

But, for now, how about we just forget all that, and I'll concede the point that I screwed up, and I plan to fix it as soon as the opportunity presents itself.

You know that, right?

I'd never admit it to anyone else but myself. However, I'm only as hard on people as I am on myself. So, I know how bad this is…and I knew that even before Booth unintentionally volleyed the metaphorical ball that had been bouncing back and forth between us for almost two years over this…_thing _between us back into my half of the court. He did that, you know, when he showed up this morning, and brought me some coffee.

It's not like I didn't know it was him as soon as the buzzer on my door began to ring.

It wasn't like he'd woken me up. I'd actually been up for quite some time, if I even conceded that I'd ever been to sleep since my evening had been much more…restless than I'd originally anticipated. At about 4:30am, I gave up, slipped out of bed, grabbed my robe, and left my lightly snoring companion to him own devices. I was too tired to really want to get up and work, so I grabbed my latest copy of _World Archaeology _magazine off my stack of mail that I'd gathered the day before and deposited there as I hurried to ready for my 'date'. Although Angela's been trying for years to get me to read popular culture magazines like _People _or _Cosmopolitan_, I find these lighter archaeology magazines to be 'fluffy' enough to satisfy my taste for non-scholarly stories that are about something that interests me without being too pedantic, as some of the stories in my journals like _American Antiquity_, the _Journal of Forensic Sciences_, the American _Journal of Physical Anthropology_, or the _International Journal of Osteoarchaeology _can sometimes can be.

I clutched the magazine to my side as I walked into the living room, plopped down on the couch, turned on the lamp on the end table nearest to me, drew my knees up to my chin, and adjusted the afghan that had been draped on the back of the couch around me.

About an hour later, I felt slightly more awake, but still cranky from a lack of sleep. Yes, it's true that my physical lust had been satiated earlier that night. However, at what price? I had a long day ahead of me, and I knew I wasn't going to get through it without at least two venti non-fat lattes from Starbucks…at least one in the morning and one after lunch. As long as there wasn't a case and I didn't have to go into the field, I knew I'd be fine even as I questioned how wise it had been to trade sleep for sex. I really thought that my night with him would go better than it did, bringing me a new sense of grounded focus and clarity to soften the aggressive feelings I'd been feeling in greater and greater urgency most recently. But, that wasn't how it turned out when I couldn't sleep after achieving a fairly satisfactory orgasm when we copulated. I sighed at the thought, and went back to reading my magazine.

Eventually, more time passed, and the sun's fiery red fingers curled over the D.C. dewy morning landscape. Around 6am, I heard a shuffling coming from my bedroom, and I figured my sleeping companion had awakened because of my alarm going off. This was confirmed a few minutes later when he padded out to the family room, smiled at me as he said good morning, and asked if I wanted to join him for a shower. I refrained from frowning as I shook my head, because I really just wanted him gone. He seemed a bit hurt by my refusal, but eventually took my hint and disappeared back into my bedroom to clean up before his normal departure as was customary at this point in our routine.

By 6:30am, I heard the water turned off in my bathroom, and I got up to wonder if I might be able to get ready for work when I heard that damn buzzer. Glancing at the clock to confirm what I already knew, I grumbled as I realized there would be only one person who'd be knocking on my door at this time of the day without calling first.

Only one person had an ego and a metaphorical set of balls big enough to challenge me like that: Booth.

Walking to the door, I sighed, as I realized that despite the hour, and the fact that I wasn't alone, I was glad to see him. That happiness became even more pronounced as I heard him calling out to me through the front door.

"Bones, wakey-wakey," he called softly. "Bones? Wakey-wakey. Eggs and bakey."

Shaking my head softly at his inane ramblings, I quickly pushed the smile off my face. I needed to at least make a token protest at his arrival, lest he lose all respect for me.

"Do you have any idea what time it is?" I asked sternly as I opened the door.

He grinned with a nod. "6:30," he said. He then extended his hand to proffer me the peace offering he carried. "Which is why I brought you this." He gestured with the cup of coffee that he held in his left hand. It wasn't a venti latte―as Booth was a pure Dunkin' Donuts man and detested Starbucks under all but the most dire of circumstances―but, at 6:30am after a night of little sleep, it would have to do.

I took the cup of coffee in between both of my hands, bringing it close so that I could inhale the warm scent as Booth stared at me and nodded, "Nice, uh, bed head there."

His statement was ironic since I'd been to bed, yes, but had slept little in a way that normally would result in my hair getting mussed into the colloquially described 'bed-head' that Booth sported more frequently that I ever did. I was just about to open my mouth and say as much when I heard a movement behind me and didn't need to turn around to see what had caused Booth's surprise when he took a sip of his coffee and had almost spit it out.

"Hmmmmm," Booth said, arching an eyebrow as he took in the sight that had clearly caught him off guard as he look over my shoulder. "Whoa!"

"Ummmm," I struggled to find the appropriate words to put the situation in context. Booth didn't help things as he just distracted me when he let out a low whistle of surprise. Deciding the best way to get this situation back under control was to get either Booth or Mark out of my apartment and as quickly as possible, I fell back on standard social protocol. "So, ahhh, Seeley Booth, Mark Gaffney."

"Hey," Mark called out from behind me.

Booth shot me a look before he nodded back at Mark. "Hey."

Since Booth was at the front door, and not actually inside my apartment, as grateful as I was for him bringing me the coffee, logic dictated he would be the easiest one to get rid of…but, sometimes even I forget that logic can be flawed, and ergo, wrong.

"What do you want, Booth?" I asked as my partner stood in front of me, partially smirking as he sipped his coffee. I tried not to scowl as he maintained a deceptively casual demeanor.

"My partner," Booth eventually grinned. "Got some pre-breakfast remains for you," he said matter-of-factly before he tilted his head and called out, "You, uhhhh, getting a little chilly there, Mark?"

Turning around, I glanced at Mark. He'd come up behind me, and was standing just close enough so that some type of proprietary interest might be discerned by his body language towards me. I shot him a look, and coupled with Booth's words, he apparently wasn't as dumb as I'd originally thought since he apparently got the message.

"I think I'll put some clothes on," he said with a nod before he turned around and headed back towards my bedroom.

Booth's grin widened as he took another step into the apartment and shut the front door behind him.

"Excellent choice," he called out as Mark disappeared into the back hallway.

He then turned on me, arched an eyebrow, and waited expectantly. I handed him the coffee and said, "Hold that. I'll be right back."

"Bones―"

"Don't start, Booth," I grumbled. I couldn't quite understand why he was giving me this strange look as I turned sharply on my heels and began walking in the way in which Mark had disappeared. "Ten minutes," I muttered. "I'll be ready in ten minutes."

It actually ended up being closer to fifteen minutes since, as I tried to get dressed, Mark kept getting in my way. When I finally shooed him out of my bedroom with a promise to call him later, I heard a muffled exchange between the pair from the outer room that made me wince. Already, things that had started off badly when I hadn't gotten any real sleep the night before were going from bad to worse. And, of course, Booth was there to witness it.

About a half hour later, we were on our way to the crime scene and hadn't really said a word to each other. The dulcet sounds of a morning news show played on the stereo, and I was content to sip my coffee as I realized how annoyed I was at Booth having found me out, i.e., seen first hand evidence of my weakness that I'd thought I'd be able to take care of without anyone being any wiser. God, even just saying it I can see how stupid it sounds. And, of course, he was there to see my spectacular screw up. Of course, he was.

Feeling the ire continue to bubble, I felt an intense desire to suddenly vent. Turning in my seat to face him, I broke the silence that had fallen between us as I said, "It would be good if you called first."

Booth's eyes darted over from where he was watching the road for just a few seconds as he glanced at me. And, then he said the single statement that would make me go from embarrassed and annoyed to curiously pissed off.

"Well, who knew you were even dating?"

Dating?

Dating.

_Dating_.

Wait. If his question implies that he was unaware that I was still seeing potential romantic partners in a ritual known as 'dating', then by default, it implies that at some point I stopped seeing members of the opposite sex. Why would I do that? It makes no logical sense―even if that's exactly what had eventually happened. But, he didn't know that. He couldn't know that. Because, that would mean he knows what's been happening to me over the past two years because of him, and he's done nothing about it. Booth is many things, but he's neither _that_ chivalrous (not bringing it up once in all that time to spare my feelings when he'd say it would be something that would be just too good not to joke about) or that self-controlled (at some point, he'd let something slip somewhere). So, he can't know…but, then…more importantly, why should he sound so pleased at the thought?

None of this makes any sense. None at all. And, that's why he does to me. What he's always done to me. God!

"Well, I wouldn't call it dating," I finally managed to cobble together some type of response because I date. Just because I don't know what to do with how Booth makes me feel doesn't mean I'm sitting at home like some type of spaniel waiting for him to get his head on straight―at least, on the occasional night, like last night, when I don't have my metaphorical head screwed on straight I don't. "We occasionally make arrangements to spend time together."

It was Booth's turn to consider my words before he said, "I'm just surprised you're not more picky."

Oh, I'm plenty picky enough. I just can't have the tall dark haired, dark eyed, muscular male I want in my bed. I'm sure it didn't escape you that Mark shares a startling number of physical characteristics with you, did it, Booth? That wasn't coincidence, after all.

"My relationship with Mark is purely physical―" I hesitated about what to say next. After all, this was Booth I was talking to, and it was never a good idea to talk to him about this kind of thing until I'd gone over several possible conversational contingencies in my head in preparation. But, I was tired and annoyed and the caffeine hadn't kicked in yet, and I could tell he was just looking at me with a slightly smug look on his face that I suddenly felt an incredible desire to wipe off someway, somehow, as quickly as possible. And, that's why I didn't stop to think as the next words came bungling out of my mouth. "―and I am very satisfied with him in that area. Did you see his chest and his thighs?"

Commence internal wincing.

I didn't really just say that, did I?

The look on Booth's face told me two things. A.) Yes, I had succeeded in my goal of wiping the smug look off his face, and B.) yes, I had just really said that out loud.

Booth blinked at me for a minute as he finally croaked, "Bones―what?"

Okay, I'd said it. And, more importantly, now I had his attention in a conversation that I was completely unprepared to have with him because I hadn't thought at all about what I was going to say. Improvisation has never been one of my strong suits, but maybe…if I could make him understand?

"Haven't you chosen someone because they were satisfying sexually?" I asked. The question sounded okay in my head, but as soon as I saw the new look he gave me, I knew I'd somehow said the wrong thing.

"There has to be more than sex," Booth intoned.

Oh, right. That's rich. Coming from you, Booth? Please…what was it with Rebecca and then Cam if not just about the hormones? Or, is this your way of trying to tell me you were with them and then not me because you loved them? Still love them? Can't love me?

Wait a minute.

Shit.

Where did that come from? I don't even believe in love. Lust, yes. But, love? No, I don't. Never.

Unless…

Do I?

No, that's ridiculous. I don't believe in love. If I did, why would I have called Mark for sex last night to help scratch an increasingly unscratchable biological itch that I blame you for, Booth.

"Not really," I then heard myself explaining. "Our interests and professions do not intersect."

"Well, what is he?" Booth smirked. "Bricklayer? You know, truck driver? Tango dancer?" he snickered.

Pursing my lips, I swallowed a tart retort as I simply answered, "He is a deep-sea welder."

At this, Booth guffawed, and I curled my toes in my boots to keep from acting on the impulse to slug him in the gut for how much pleasure he was deriving from this conversation at my expense. I mean, okay, I sort of set myself up for this one, but even still―

"Wow," Booth muttered with a shake of his head. "I wouldn't even think to put that on the list."

"Well, they work on oil derricks, repair boats. After being at sea for months at a time, he seems to enjoy having a sexual relationship, so..." I said, trying to make him understand. Again, that didn't go over well as Booth just shot me another look that I didn't understand.

"I'm sure," he said. "I am sure," he repeated before he added with a small shake of his head, "Deep-sea welder."

At that moment, for some reason another errant fact about Mark popped into my head. Why I chose to share it as my retort to Booth's torture of me, I can only partially guess. "He can hold his breath for three minutes down there."

Again, Booth took his eyes off the road. Again, he flashed me a look I didn't understand. Again…always with him, I never seem to understand. It's bewildering and frustrating and so extremely and utterly overwhelmingly attractive.

"Underwater?" he finally asked.

It took me another minute to understand what he was really asked, and for the first time in quite a long time, I realized that Booth had made a sexual insinuation. However, by the time I realized what he was really asking, the logical part of my brain had already spoken.

"Of course."

Again, Booth shot me a look, and again I didn't know what it meant. But, at that moment…_something _changed between us. It was almost so subtle, I don't think I'd even have noticed it in retrospect if I didn't know what would happen next.

So, there you have it. That's how it all started.

Like I said, I know I did something really stupid. And, as long as Booth was sitting there looking at me like that, there was an ever increasing probability that I was probably going to do something even more stupid all over again.

It's been getting worse, lately―you know? All he has to look at me, blink those soft and warm brown irises at me, and I can't think straight. It's always been like that, but I can usually control it…or at least manage it, someway, somehow. But, in the last few months? It's been worse. Much worse. And, degenerating more each day. And, I don't know why. I've tried and tried and attempted to wrap my metaphorical head around this issue, and the more I try to apply logic and reason to it, the more muddled my brain becomes.

Being incredibly sexually frustrated hasn't helped the situation. Hence my idea of taking care of that solution with Mark so that I could focus with a clear and renewed perspective on Booth.

But, we all know how that ended, so all that I can do is hope I don't do something else that's really stupid. Although, probability dictates, until I figure out how to handle this situation with him, I probably will mess up again.

That is, unless…well, I'm not sure how this is going to sound. I'm not certain, once I verbalize it, if it's going to sound rather ingenuous or just mediocre… or even just as another stupid idea.

But, maybe…well, look.

Like I said, I did share all of this because I expected forgiveness or absolution or to be excused, even. I only wanted comprehension, understanding.

None of this…well, I didn't do anyone of it in my right mind. I know that, okay?

I know that better than any of you, and trust me―in the last few hours I've been metaphorically beating myself up so hard over what I know now was clearly a tremendously immense error in judgment, that several of my muscle groups would be black and blue if they could be seen.

But, I've got to do something about Booth. And, since I can't let him go, I think that means there's only one choice I've really got: I need to get him to realize he was wrong, that he wants me, and ergo should come and get me.

Brilliant plan, right?

Now, I just need to figure out how to do it…

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><p><span>-TBC-<span>

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><p><span>Author's Note<span>: Greetings, intrepid readers. I'm sure many of you are surprised to be seeing something new from me at this point in time. I know…I finally wrap up an epic story like "Eighteen Minutes," and three days later I turn around and start something that didn't even exist as a blink in the muse's mind's eye until yesterday afternoon. Anyway, I've always thought Brennan needed a chance to explain why an incredibly brilliant woman, can…under the right circumstances, make incredibly stupid choices. This originally started as a one-shot, but as some of you may know, I've been a bit experimental in my form lately. So, what I wanted to do with this piece is see if I could write a story based on a single episode. Not all scenes will be covered (just the interesting ones). So, if that sounds good to any of you, let's roll.


	2. Pt II: I Tried to Apply Logic

Did Something Stupid

By: Lesera128

Rated: M

Disclaimer: stares:: ::blinks:: ::stares again:: Yeah. I still don't own anything…but, you knew that from the stares, right?

Summary: When a person's in lust, it makes them do crazy things. They can't eat, think can't sleep, they can't think straight. In Brennan's case, she acts really, really stupid. This is how she explains herself and tries to solve her problem. Set during 4x03: Man in the Outhouse. AU.

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><p><span>Part II - I Tried to Apply Logic<span>

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><p>Like any rational and highly intelligent person, I've never met a situation that I didn't think could be solved if I had a chance to take it apart, consider all the issues, anticipate all the possible outcomes, prepare for the most likely of those outcomes by developing contingency plans, and eventually solve the problem with which I was faced.<p>

The only problem is, the longer I've known Seeley Booth, the more I've come to realize that situations and problems that can't be solved by logic and reason follow him relentlessly.

I've never met a man who is more infuriating or enticing in his ability to confuse and to challenge me all at the same time.

I suppose that's why I've spent all this time with him as a partner when I'd had never even really made a friend outside of my family who I could stand to be around for longer than short measured gapes of predetermined time. Now, aside from the fact that I'm the best in my field, I'm not really certain why Booth had put up with me all these years. At first, I thought it was because he was just being stubborn. Then, as time progressed, I thought it might be because he was a masochist. Later, I can only come to the conclusion that there has to be something besides my expertise that he finds as a redeeming set of qualities that keeps him around me in some type of social capacity. After all, it's not like the various lunches at the diner, late night drinking sessions at the Founding Fathers, the numerous take out nights at his or my place, the visits with his son, and general down time that we spend socializing can really be deemed as anything but voluntary.

I wish I could understand what he finds attractive in my personality to make him want to put up with all the things that I put him through. Yes, I'm intelligent, extremely well-off monetarily, and the that best I am in the field of forensic anthropology. I know I'm also physically attractive, albeit not the 'norm' when one considers Booth's prior predilections for leggy blondes. But, none of those things explain why he relaxes around me. Why he continues to have the patience to explain random pop culture references to me or further my 'education' with movie nights and trips to the bowling alley or mini golf courses. Somehow, at some point, for some reason, we became friends, and I'm still not certain how that happened. What I do know is that somewhere along the way, at some point, all those collective things made me realize that I want him more than I already did during the very first week I met him and realized that I had an immediate and extreme physical attraction to him. And, just in case anyone missed it, I wanted him _a lot_ during that first case.

All of these thoughts, and a few others, were swirling in my mind on our return to the Hoover building.

He was driving, listening to the radio, bopping his head to the familiar lyrics of one of the 80s radio stations he liked. For my part, I sat in the passenger's seat, trying to reason what I was going to do about the latest mess of a situation that I'd created that morning when Booth found out about Mark. That part still irked me. I really wish he hadn't found out. I'm not certain why. It's not because I particularly care what people know about my sex life. I've never been a prude or shameful when it comes to such things. It's just I didn't want Booth to know. For some reason, I felt…I don't know, that maybe it might embarrass him? And, in that context, it caused me distress that he might have some negative response because of something I did.

A minute or two later, Booth's cell phone rang. He picked it up from where it sat in the center console's cup holder and didn't spare me a second glance as he took the call. I looked over at him nonetheless as I waited in expectation of being informed by what his field detail had discerned about out latest case.

His phone conversation continued for a couple of minutes before he ended it with the perfunctory, "Okay. Great, thanks." When Booth ended the call and tossed the phone back into the center console's cup holder where it had resided before, he then looked over at me and said, "O'Roarke and his wife live in Cherry Ridge. Old Bill must have been making a tidy sum."

I considered the point and forced myself to focus on our case. At last, I tilted my head, made a face, and couldn't help myself as I said, "Well, he shouldn't have been rewarded. He was perpetuating a primitive and prurient morality by parading victims for the purpose of entertainment."

Booth, in response, made a face of his own countered my statement in that infuriatingly appealing way that only he can do. "Well, you know what? You cheat on your spouse, you get what's coming to you." He looked quite pleased with his assessment as he gave a curt nod to emphasize his point.

When he got that look on his face, it was almost second-nature or habit for me to want to spout some type of factual scientific information to at least make an attempt to keep him from pontificating too much at any given time. "Anthropologically, 83 percent of societies are polygamous," I finally managed to say as I shifted slightly in anticipation of his response.

As soon as the words were out of my mouth, Booth did have a response―and an inane one, at that, which told me I'd caught him off guard with my factual recitation. "Now you sound French, okay?" He pursed his lips together and then let his eyes glance from the road to me and back in a quick movement as he gathered his thoughts. He then added, somewhat of an improvement on his prior retort, but still somewhat lacking in its ability to effectively countermand my statement, "Look, being faithful is what separates us, you know, from the chimps."

I chuckled silently. Booth's thought processes and the way he comes up with his statements whenever he tries to counter my scientific points with one of his own really is amusing.

Shaking my head slightly, I struggled to keep the amusement out of my voice―lest he pick up on it and take it as some sign I'd conceded the point―as I responded, "No, actually, it's a gene called HAR1F."

Again, another scientific point to me. And, moreover, Booth knew it. And, I knew he knew it when he quickly changed debate tactics from fighting scientific fact with science to attempting to counter scientific fact with religion.

"We're talking about the Ten Commandments here, Bones," he said emphatically. "'Thou shalt not commit adultery'―one down from your personal favorite, 'Thou shalt not kill'."

I have a personal favorite among the Ten Commandments? I was unaware of this. But, since Booth had brought up religion in our discussion, I considered it fair game to rib him just a bit.

"Oh, so you also believe that Moses wandered the desert for 40 days, climbed Mount Sinai, at which point a supernatural force carved a convenient list of behavioral guidelines on two pieces of rock?" I asked.

Booth, another self-satisfied look on his face, nodded at me as he answered, "Yeah." I'd opened my mouth to counter his point when again, the mysteries of his brain struck and befuddled me into silence. "That's why it's on the Supreme Court," he added, seeming quite pleased with himself.

As I considered his point, and knew it to be true factually, I realized that somehow Booth had outmaneuvered me once again. How in the hell did that happen? While I tried to make sense of that, I could only manage a single response, "Fascinating."

Of course, I meant that statement less in response to his point about the Ten Commandments and their connection to the US Supreme Court, and more in relation to how his brain had managed to go from spousal fidelity to apes to the Bible to the US Supreme Court. Then, as he pulled into the parking garage near the Hoover that signaled the end of our commute, I realized that the only person who could pull off a mental stunt like that, and come away feeling as if he'd made a perfectly rational argument that had bested my logic was Seeley Booth.

And, that made me realize that I cared even more for him in that moment than I'd realized that morning…which is saying something, by the way.

Because, I had quite the epiphany this morning. I did. Several, in fact.

And, I still wasn't certain what to do about it since I wasn't quite certain how and why the epiphanies had decided to manifest themselves this morning anyway.

I suppose, in a way, it had to do with Mark.

It happened like this. That night, after our most recent interlude, I had a somewhat jarring revelation. Even though the sex did allow me to achieve a physical release, it was, for the first time…not as memorable as I'd anticipated it to be. More over, instead of falling into a relaxed slumber as I usually do after I achieved my orgasm, something strange happened. Instead of going to sleep, I found myself thinking about Booth.

Now, the question is ―why?

Well, that's a very complicated answer. But, here's the best explanation I've come up with as I worked through the matter while reading all those World Archaeology magazine articles. And, again, I'd never admit this to anyone else, but here goes. I'm not certain he even noticed as Mark can be somewhat…single-minded when it comes to such things, but that night when all of this started? Something happened to me, and I noticed it even if I didn't identify it's significance until a little later.

That night? Well, that night….

That night? It was the first time, even if it was just for a split second, that I forgot who I was with and why. And, for what was surely only a microsecond―a mere fraction of a second, I'm certain, it wasn't Mark that I was with when we were having sex. For a short period of time, it was a different tall, dark-haired, dark-eyed, cocky male who smelled like menthol and lemon and Ivory soap and had a grin that could―on most days―get me to do just about anything he wanted me to do.

That night, when I achieved my orgasm, it was _him _who I pictured on top of me, moving in and out of me as I pushed further and further towards release. It was _him _he called out my name…but not Temperance or Tempe, but a nickname that only he calls me. It was _him _who made me feel….something I'd never felt before that very moment.

It was my partner.

It was Booth.

And, that's why I knew I needed to do something about us. I'm just still not certain what to do and how because it turns out that I'm quickly coming to think that maybe he's one situation that can be solved by logic or reason.

And, that means, to borrow a phrase from Angela―I'm screwed. Totally and utterly screwed.

Because, well...what do I do with _that_?

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><p><span>-TBC-<span>

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><p><span>Author's Note<span> - Just a friendly reminder in case some people missed it, this is not a canon fill-in-the-blanks of "The Man in the Outhouse." It's AU, and that means I will be messing around with the episode. If that sounds interesting, lay on MacDuff. If not, well…okay. Good night and good luck.~


	3. Pt III: I Needed Time to Think

Did Something Really Stupid

By: Lesera128

Rated: M

Disclaimer: stares:: ::blinks:: ::stares again:: Yeah. I still don't own anything…but, you knew that from the stares, right?

Summary: When a person's in lust, it makes them do crazy things. They can't eat, think can't sleep, they can't think straight. In Brennan's case, she acts really, really stupid. This is how she explains herself and tries to make amends. Set during 4x03: Man in the Outhouse. AU.

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><p>Part III - I Needed Time to Think<p>

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><p>Things were not going well.<p>

I'd been up for several hours and the case had all but swallowed my morning whole...and part of my afternoon, too, now that I glanced at the clock. But, that was nothing out of the ordinary as it was what such investigations like this one usually tended to do. However, even though I'd made some good progress in working on the forensic issues with the remains that had been found in the outhouse, I was also still no closer to making any sense of the situation with Booth.

I knew I needed to do something.

_I did_.

I just wasn't sure _what_ it was that I should do that would result in me achieving the most optimum outcome given what I wanted to happen between Booth and I. More importantly, every time I thought I started to make sense of things and come up with a solid plan of action, a quite irksome voice in the back of my head distracted me. The repeated distractions had a cumulative effect of making me question myself and eventually lose confidence in what plans I'd started to formulate. I had to be going euphemistically crazy given how many times I'd gone through the process only to fall short and start all over again as I worked in the Bone Room.

By the time that Booth and I returned to the Hoover Building to conduct the initial interview of Arthur Lang, I was still working through my mental hailstorm. However, as Lang's responses demanded my full focus and attention, it wasn't until the interview was over and Booth and I were back in his office that I realized I hadn't made any progress at all over how to handle things with him…_and_ the day was almost over. I was tired―both mentally and physically―from how my brain had struggled to come up with a workable plan of action to deal with the Booth situation, and also from how much time I'd spent hunched over a platform in the lab. The more I thought about it, the more I realized that the logical course of action would be to just make my excuses to Booth and then to go home. There, I could change, soak in a tub, have a nice glass or two of wine, and once I was relaxed enough, I was fairly confident that a solution would present itself.

There were only two problems that stood in the way of me being able to do that.

The first was a rather minor one.

A number of my colleagues at American had decided to attend the public screening of a documentary that the Anthropology Club had obtained on recent archaeological excavations in Afghanistan. I knew of, and had agreed to go to, the event because one of the archaeobotanists in the department had informed me of the screening. Dr. Jason DeFry had a keen interest in floral remains from any site that predated the Sassanid dynasty in any area that had once been controlled by the Persian Empire (including Bactria, a province now within the borders of Afghanistan). I also knew that DeFry desperately wanted me to arrange an introduction for him to one of the archaeologists I'd spent a season helping to identify family members of the same particular Macedonian line for his own research purposes. That's why he'd been so persistent in trying to get me into a situation where we might have social intercourse so that he could secure my agreement to help him in such professional matters. I also believe that he _might _have had a slight interest in me from a personal perspective. That was less important to me because I had no interest in him from a physical perspective, and wouldn't have even if I hadn't been consumed with thoughts of Booth at the current time. He wasn't tall enough, he really didn't have the normal coloring in hair or eyes that I found attractive, and he was a bit too…prissy in his style of dress for my preferred tastes in potential romantic partners. I found conversing with him on an academic level to be quite enjoyable, but knew there would never be anything between us beyond that. So, as I said, making my excuses to DeFry and skipping the documentary screening was done easily enough with a simple phone call since I trained the department to the busy and often unpredictable nature of my schedule because of my field work with the FBI.

But, getting out of the second commitment was going to take more finesse than merely calling DeFry and letting him know of my change in plans. I was going to have to find a valid excuse (not related to work) to get away from Booth for a while.

_Damn it_.

These were the thoughts that were swirling in my head when I was standing in Booth's office with him after we'd finished Lang's interview and were ostensibly comparing notes.

"Arthur Lang will only talk through his attorney, who says he was in Atlantic City all weekend playing Keno," Booth sighed as he stared at me. "We're checking out his story."

"He could've hired a hit man," I offered, as I tried to make it seem that the case had my full attention and that I wasn't as distracted as I actually was.

Booth considered my suggestion for only a faction of a second before he shook his head and said, "No, this was not a contract job. This was personal and violent." He pursed his lips and then nodded at me as he let that particular thread of discussion fall away. "Okay. Sweets is on his way up with the show tapes to profile for a revenge killer."

In that moment, I have to admit it. I don't think I was ever as thankful for the existence in my life of Dr. Lance Sweets as I'd ever been right then. If Sweets was going to do his pseudo-science thing with Booth from the psychological profiling side of things, that meant that my work with Booth was done for the evening.

I was free.

Just like that.

_Free_.

And, all thanks to Dr. Lance Sweets, intelligent purveyor of a specious academic field that I normally despised.

But, tonight...if Sweets and psychology meant I could go home…and leave Booth…and not have to say anything to make my excuses that would result in me making another verbal miscalculation, then maybe I needed to have more respect for him than I did.

Huh. How about that?

Now, I don't believe in luck…but, Sweets. Who knew it? Sweets. My life had just been made _easier_ because of Dr. Lance Sweets.

_Sweets_.

Trying not to appear too eager, I nodded at Booth and said simply before I flocked to my now blissfully clear night (no excuses or explanations needed, thank you very much), "Okay. See you later."

I was _almost_ out the door….no, wait―I actually_ was_ out of the office door when Booth called out to me.

"Whoa, Bones, wait a second," he called out.

I felt something tighten in my stomach as Booth called after me.

_No. Damn it. No._

Pretend I didn't hear him. Keep walking. Go home.

Keep walking. Just keep walking and―

I knew he was following me, even as I walked as fast as I could to the elevator without attracting what I hoped would be too much undue attention. I could sense his presence even if I hadn't heard his heavy footfall behind me.

"Where you going?" Booth asked me once I'd reached the elevator, stopped walking, had pressed the button, and I was waiting for the damn doors to open. Turning around, his warm brown eyes sought mine, and I began to feel a bit lightheaded.

_Damn it, no._

"I thought maybe we could, you know, help out Sweets," he said with a small smile―that smile that always precedes that more charming one that he knows he can flash me to get me to do whatever he wants…and has _always _been able to use on me to get me to do his biding.

_Damn it._

Excuses…I can't stay here with him looking at me like that…not with Sweets around. Then, Sweets will know something's off with me, and he'll tell Booth, and I'll have to talk with Booth about how I feel about him before I'm ready to, and it won't end well…and damn it. I can smell him again. He's close enough to me that I can smell his aftershave. It's a mixture of sandalwood and amber, and I've always liked how it smells. But, with Booth staring at me like that and smiling and smelling so damn good and…I just know that huge charming grin of his is coming next, and...

_I have to get out of her._

Excuses…excuses. I need a viable excuse to leave and one that Booth will have no interest in potentially joining me with. What could it be? Think, Brennan, think. I can't go back to the lab, I don't want to say anything that in any way implies I have a date or other romantic rendezvous. What could I say? Hmmmm...

_Wait_.

Film. Archaeology documentary. Afghanistan. Persia. Sassanids. Archaeobotany. Academics. Dr. Jason DeFry.

Hmmmm…Booth would hate that. There's no way in hell he'd sign up to go anywhere near a room full of academics and a documentary that had to do with the excavation of bones, floral and faunal remains, and non-military material culture.

A ha. Got 'em. _Bingo, baby_. At least, as Booth would say.

Smiling, I looked up at him and said, "To a film."

Booth gave me a small shake of his head that I knew he wanted to tell me that I wasn't going even as his smile grew a bit larger. "Oh, this is much better than a movie. Hours of fascinating video." He paused and then his smile suddenly shifted to a smirk―one that I'd never particularly cared for―and, I admit he caught me off-guard as he snickered, "Hey, great stories for the deep-sea welder."

Deep-sea welder. Mark. My AM mistake.

Mark.

Booth commenting on Mark for the first time all day.

_Fuck_.

This was _not_ good.

If he was smirking and snickering instead of grinning and trying to cajole me, that means…oh, damn it. That means this is worse than I thought. Because he only smirks and snickers when something's bothered him and…oh, no―

_Damn it_.

This was _not_ good―not good at all. And, if I wasn't careful, I knew I was going to make things worse just like I had yesterday when I started the avalanche of a mess I'd started by involving Mark in my plans to get a clear enough head so I could deal with my feelings with Booth. Idiot, Brennan―idiot. So, I just needed to get out of there. Away from things―away from Booth…I needed to do that as quickly as possible as long as he knew I wasn't leaving to go on another date with Mark. Because I wasn't. I just…I was leaving to go home and think about how to handle Booth. But, he couldn't know that, so―

So…documentary…Dr. DeFry…archaeobotany.

Leveling my gaze at him, I shook my head and said, "No, actually, I'm going to the film with a botanist."

Booth stared at me for a minute, and then his small smirk turned into a big smirk as his eyes brightened with obvious curiosity. He then nodded slowly at me as he said, "Oh, I get it. You dumped Mark."

Okay, that's good. Booth thinks Mark is out of the picture. So, good. Point to you, Brennan. Now, just get the hell out of there―

"It's too bad," Booth was saying as he continued talking. "I kinda liked the guy."

Wait. Liked Mark? Booth liked Mark? Why would Booth say that? Huh?

He was staring at me and smirking again…and he had that smug look on his face that he always gets when he thinks he's right about something. Why is he doing that?

Unless…wait. Is he making fun of me? Is that it? Is he…but, why would he do that? Does he think that I'm not…well, not capable of retaining a member of the opposite sex for any period of time because I'm not attractive or pleasing enough? Is that it? Is he…does he think that little of my skills and abilities and attractiveness?

_Seriously_?

He's still smirking at me. He is. He thinks I can't keep a date. That's it, isn't it? He has all the girlfriends in the allegorical world. from Rebecca to Cam and back again, but he thinks I can't hold onto a single date since Sully sailed off without me, right?

_Bastard_.

Well, what does he know? I'll show him. I will. I'm very attractive and very skilled and very pleasing to members of the opposite sex. I'm smart and financially secure and very adroit at holding significantly complex conversations on a number of different topics. So, what does he know? Who does he think he is just standing there and smirking at me?

Fine.

_Fuck it_.

"No," I said with a sharp shake of my head to correct him…and wipe that damn smirk off his handsome face. "I didn't dump Mark―I'm seeing both of them."

Booth's eyes widened as he croaked in obvious surprise, "At the same time?"

I nodded, pleased to see that my words had such a disconcerting effect on him. I loved seeing Booth flustered. Perfect.

"Mark and I have a physical connection," I embroidered my specious tale. "The botanist, while brilliant and fascinating, just...just doesn't appeal to me in that way."

Well, that last part was certainly true enough. But, isn't that what makes the best lies…just enough truth to make them seem real?

Apparently, Booth would say so since I'd obviously caught his attention as he began to rant a bit while I was _still _waiting for an elevator that was apparently coming to Booth's floor in the Hoover Building from a trans-Atlantic crossing from another floor located in Zimbabwe.

"Okay," he said. "So, all that stuff you said about monogamy being unnatural…you're just making excuses."

He lifted his gaze to me, tilted his head, and then waited to see what I would do with that. He was trying to knock me off my metaphorical game with him. Well, you know what, Booth? That's not going to work. I may care about you a tremendous amount, but I'm not going to even let _you _make me look foolish.

"I do not make excuses," I said sharply. I then added, as I narrowed my eyes at him, "Only people who are ashamed make excuses."

And, I'm not ashamed of who I am…and never will be, damn it.

Booth, apparently taken aback by my intransigence, told me, "Bones, two guys at the same time―it's not right." He then added with a confused look on his face. "I mean, that's why they invented dueling."

Finally The tell-tale _ding_ finally sounded it's arrival. God, that I don't believe in beyond euphemistic conversational exclamations, thank you. The elevator finally is here, and I can get the hell out of here, but…oh, no.

Sweets.

_Damn it_.

Nodding at Booth, I waited for Sweets to get out of the way and started to throw a parting shot at Booth. "How can you say―"

Sweets, ever his exuberant self with rotten timing, nodded at us both with a smile on his face as he cut me off with his own question. "Hey," he greeted us. "You guys ready?" he asked with a happy grin.

God, I hate that guy. Sweets. Really. I really do.

Ignoring Sweets' greeting and question, I nodded at Booth and said, "I know what I'm doing, Booth."

I.e., getting out of here, going home, and figuring out what in the hell I need to do to fix this situation between us once and for all. I brushed past Sweets in the elevator, turned around to face the doors, and pressed a button for the ground floor.

However, as usual, my escape was temporarily halted as Booth put his hand on the door to hold it open.

He stared at me, the arrogant smirk and snickering gone, as he spoke in a more gentle tone. "My gut says you're going with your gut on this one―" Damn it. He can't know that. How can he know that? How can he know _me _that well when I haven't even had time to figure out what to do about him. "―and we all know how that ends up," he said. "Not good," he added, as if any clarification where needed about how things tended to go in my life when I acted on feelings instead of calm, rational, and logical thoughts.

Damn it. I needed to get out of here.

Sweets, for his part, seemed appropriately lost, but his meddling psychologist's intuition seemed to have been piqued by what he'd just witnessed of our exchange as he asked, "Uhhhh, is there something we need to discuss before getting to work?"

I was not discussing the future of my personal relationship with Booth in front of Booth _and _Sweets at the same time. There was just no way in hell _that _was happening. No way.

Shaking my head, I snapped, "No, no. Just call me when you find something of value."

I then reached out and pounded on the button for the ground floor, scowled when I saw Booth was still holding the door, leaned forward, and swatted his hand away more roughly than I'd intended so that the doors would close.

Even as they finally did so, and Booth shot me one more quizzical look, I heard him say to Sweets, "No, it's nothing. It's just, she's…got a date."

I vaguely heard Sweets say something before the elevator car began to move, "Oh? And how do you feel about that?"

"It's not about me, okay?" Booth's faint voice said. And, even as he spoke, I felt my heart sink a bit.

It wasn't about him.

He…he thought that?

_Really_?

"Let's go look at those videos," I barely heard him tell Sweets before the elevator finally started to move.

He…he…he…oh, damn it.

_Damn it all to hell._

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><p><span>-TBC-<span>


	4. Pt IV: I Watched the Male Mind In Action

Did Something Stupid

By: Lesera128

Rated: M

Disclaimer: stares:: ::blinks:: ::stares again:: Yeah. I still don't own anything…but, you knew that from the stares, right?

Summary: When a person's in lust, it makes them do crazy things. They can't eat, think can't sleep, they can't think straight. In Brennan's case, she acts really, really stupid. This is how she explains herself and tries to make amends. Set during 4x03: Man in the Outhouse. AU.

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><p><span>Part IV - I Watched the Male Mind In Action<span>

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><p>I watched the majority of the documentary, hosted by the Anthropology Club at American University, on current archaeological endeavors in Afghanistan with what I'm sure was a glazed over look on my face since I wasn't really paying attention to what was being said. I spent the entire 74 minutes of the documentary's duration, and the 22 minutes afterwards where students had the opportunity to question various faculty members who were there with question, in a logical daze. It wasn't that my mind wasn't engaged, because it was. It's just that during those 96 minutes, my brain was wrestling with the mess that was my would-be love life (to borrow a phrase that Anegla insists on using in her attempt to get me to include more colloquial vernacular terms in my daily syntax) and how my actual sex was compromising it. Fortunately, the scowl on my face seemed to discourage any students from asking me any questions. However, since it wasn't like there were many questions I could answer about Sassanids and other Persian finds, since most bone fragments recovered hadn't even been processed yet with preliminary findings included in the documentary, I was probably the only faculty member there that didn't actually speak.<p>

There was only one time, as a matter of fact, when anyone even addressed me. Dr. DeFry had been asked a question about some floral remains that had been found in one of the burials excavated at a site in the Ghanzi Province. The student really wanted to know why only one certain type of floral species had been preserved in the burial when it was likely that funeral offerings consisted of more than one type of plant offering. DeFry tried to answer the question partially, and then theorized that perhaps the decay of the bones might have contributed to the floral remains being in such a state when the grave was discovered―a completely asinine assumption that even an archaeobotanist in his first year of a PhD program would know not to make, let alone a tenure-track professor like Jason. When he turned to me with a hopeful smile, and asked for my input on the question, I could only shake my head and inform him of his error. It was the only thing I said before the question and answer session reached its natural conclusion.

Afterwards, even though I'd spent the entire time thinking about why I was annoyed by Booth, and what I needed to do to handle to situation with him to a favorable outcome, a group of the faculty seemed to agree that it would be enjoyable to go out for a late night bite to eat. Since I wasn't quite ready to go home yet, I agreed to accompany the five other professors who asked if anyone knew a close place that was open late and still served a decent selection of food. I randomly suggested the Royal Diner, and when no one else could offer a suitable alternative that was open, close by our present location, and offered that wide a selection of foods―since the diner served breakfast all day, a wide variety of sandwiches, as well as a wide selection of desserts that Booth loved―it was to the diner we all went.

What I hadn't anticipated happening was that after an hour or so, most of the faculty chose not to linger once their food and beverages were consumed―every, that is, except for Jason. And, that was how I ended up sitting in the diner with Jason debating…no, defending really, one of my dad's favorite movies. Somehow, the discussion during the final throws of the dinner conversation had veered to the historical accuracy of Hollywood films. I'd been drawn into the conversation when one of the cultural anthropologists in our group asked how I dealt with the accuracy―or blatant inaccuracy, as is more often the case―of the forensic anthropology that is culled from my books when their made into movies. Somehow, my response to that question had segued into a discussion about how Hollywood rarely gets anything right when it comes to accuracy standards that will satisfy the ever fickle academic community, especially the extremely picky subset represented by social scientists like historians, anthropologists, and archaeologists. From there, Jason chose to engage me about how some movies made during World War II were less success at portraying the horrors of that war accurately than others, particularly in a time period when World War II movies generally were applauded for their accuracy when made in the immediately post-war years of the late-1940s and early-1950s.

When Jason particularly began to lambast Roberto Rossellini's film, _Rome, Open City_, a 1945 film made to detail the Nazi occupation of Rome in 1944, I knew I had to speak up―and not just because it's one of my father's favorite war movies, ranking among his top favorites of all time alongside such films as _From Here to Eternity, Bridge over the River Kwai, Midway, and A Bridge Too Far._

"Open City might be Rossellini's best film," I immediately told him once Jason had countered that the _Flowers for St. Francis _was Rossellini's best film. Personally, I think he just chose that one because, from the twenty minutes I'd spent talking to him, he seemed to be somewhat obsessed with Ingrid Bergman―especially whenever she stared in a motion picture with overt religious undertones.

Shaking his head, Jason said, "Rossellini had nothing, no sets..."

My nostrils flared as I sighed and countered, "1945." I had to refrain from pursing my lips as I attempted to use logic to get him to understand the monumental significance of the film that Rossellini had managed to create in the poorest of working conditions. "The country had barely started rebuilding after the war―"

"Yes," Jason suddenly nodded as he leaned back in his chair and seemed to take on a very condescending air in that moment that made me wonder why I hadn't left when the rest of the faculty had. "Of course, I'm also a big fan of _Meatballs_―Bill Murray's paean to anarchy."

I blinked at him for a minute, uncertain to which movie and its corresponding political treatise he might be referencing when I suddenly heard a very familiar duo enter the diner. I heard them before I saw them, and I know my face twisted into a slight scowl, particularly when the pair sat down in chairs they turned around at the counter so they could sit there and look down at our table.

"Hey, Bones," Booth said in what was a rather cocky tone of voice, even for him―and that's saying something since Booth lives and breathes cockiness. He gave me what I suppose he thought was a jovial smile of greeting before he turned to Jason and said, "Hi, I'm Special Agent Booth, her partner." He nodded in my direction as he emphasized the words 'her partner' with great alacrity.

Jason, slightly nonplussed about the sudden interruption in our discussion, merely responded with a polite nod, "Hi."

Then, not to be left out, Sweets chose that moment to chime in as he too nodded at Jason and said, "I'm Dr. Lance Sweets." He paused only for the briefest of seconds before he again vaguely nodded in my direction as he added, "I'm their therapist."

"Jason DeFry," he quickly responded as he blinked from Booth to Sweets and back to Booth.

For his part, Booth seemed to take Sweets' brief interruption as the opportunity it was. He let his eyes roam up and down Jason, and after less than thirty seconds, he'd obviously made up his mind about the man he saw before him. I had to resist rolling my eyes as I realized _exactly _what conclusion Booth had come to by the way he spoke Jason's last name.

"DeFry," he said with a slightly distasteful curl of his lips as he attempted to stare the archaeobotanist down.

Refusing to be cowed, Jason turned to Sweets, since he seemed to have decided that Sweets' presence was the more perplexing thing to understand given both Booth's and his simultaneous appearance. Arching an eyebrow, he asked the psychologist, "Do you follow them around all the time?"

With a nervous laugh, Sweets replied, "No. No, no, no. I'm also a profiler. I help with the cases." He stopped and suddenly quirked his head as he looked at Booth and asked, "Did you know that she was on a date?"

In that moment, I suddenly remembered why I hated Sweets as much as I did when it came to his actions―his various efforts either accidentally or with purposeful intent, it didn't really matter which―as they _always _seemed to make my personal life more difficult. And, on this particular day, he'd already made my life where Booth was concerned more difficult not once, but twice…and the day wasn't even over yet.

I knew as soon as Sweets had put the words 'date' and 'her', i.e., me, in Booth's head, I was going to pay for it. As soon as the words were out of Sweets' mouth, any other possible explanation I could have given him as to why I was sitting at the diner with Jason would have gone in one ear and straight out the other as soon as Booth heard them. So, I didn't even bother. I merely sat back and watched what I saw as a situation I'd accidentally stumbled into where a pack of males began to interact with one another in an attempt to establish dominance and a proper hierarchy.

As the female, in this particular exercise, my presence was no longer important, and so I was momentarily ignored.

_Damn it._

His eyes never left Jason's as his jaw hardened, but he was clearly talking to Sweets as he responded, "Slipped my mind." He then leveled a gaze at Jason as he said, "Spiffy suit, man."

Jason, like most academics―and, I know this statement will be quite ironic to some when they realize that I'm the one making it―is rather social inept. He doesn't 'do' sarcasm very well, and so didn't pick up on the slightly taunting jibe to Booth's voice as Sweets and I clearly had. Thinking Booth's words were a genuine compliment, he flushed at what he thought was admiration at his suit.

Nodding at Booth, Jason said genially, "Thanks. Picked it up in Italy."

Booth nodded once, smiling that fake smile of his that I hate, and then gave another slight nod of his head as he asked, "Little tight, huh?"

Jason shrugged his shoulders slightly, still not picking up on the fact that Booth was not complimenting him, but was, in fact, making fun of his attire, explained, "It's the style."

And, then, in that moment, I went from merely being ignored as Booth shifted from attempting to establish his alpha male dominance over Jason to a tack he took in the interrogation room that I immediately recognized. I had to again resist the urge to roll my eyes at an overbearing and irksome male as he began a rapid fire series of questions that would've made even the most fanatically devoted of inquisitors proud.

"You ever been married?" Booth asked.

"No," Jason responded.

"Got a kid?" Booth questioned him.

Making a face, Jason pursed his lips as he answered, "Never been married, remember?"

I mentally cringed when I realized what faux pas Jason had made even as the words tumbled from his mouth. This was not good, not good at all.

The next words out of Booth's mouth confirmed my assumption when he said, with just a tad of defensiveness in his voice, "I have a kid."

"He's never been married," Sweets suddenly chose to interject like some loyal comedic sidekick.

Wait. What was that? What just happened there? Because I know what I thought just happened didn't actually happen. I definitively know that Sweets didn't just take my position as Booth's second chair in an interrogation, even if the said interrogation wasn't really an interrogation at all, but an impromptu broiling of my date who wasn't really my date because Booth felt challenged by Jason's presence for some reason. No, that didn't happen. Surely not.

Playing the metaphorical second fiddle to Booth and Jason was one thing. But, I was going to be figuratively damned if I'd let Sweets play a more active role in this sketch of a social farce then me.

Reasserting _my _alpha female tendencies, I decided I'd had enough as I reinserted myself into the conversation by looking to the one man in the group to whom I knew I could get his attention. "I should get to work, Jason," I told him in a loud and clear voice. Jason's head immediately swiveled from Booth and Sweet to look at me. His face softened as I said in a firm tone, "We've got a murderer to catch, you understand?"

"Of course, of course," he said with an understanding tone to his own voice. He made a show of glancing at his wristwatch as he said, "You know, it's getting late anyway." I nodded and silently willed him to go. I just wanted him gone in that moment as I continued to feel Booth's burning stare on me. However, Jason was, as usually, too persistent for his own good as he added, "Listen, I have Coldplay tickets for tomorrow night. Thought maybe we'd grab a bite first. Any interest?"

I didn't even really pay attention to his words. I suppose I did that at my own peril as I hastily nodded, so intent was I on getting him away from the Booth and Sweets Power Hour. Quickly, I nodded as I muttered, "Absolutely. I might have to leave from work."

I didn't really have any intention in going. First of all, I didn't even know who Coldplay was. It sounded like a rather archaic experimental literary event to which I knew I'd have little interest. It was probably a very dull way to pass an evening even if I was going to be doing it with a person with whom I actually enjoyed spending time. Second, I still needed to make it clear to Jason that we weren't dating and wouldn't be having any romantic interludes in the near future. But, I was aware that if I made any such comments in front of Booth that it would only make things worse between us than they already were thanks to the Mark-debacle from this morning, I wisely held my tongue on that topic of conversation.

Jason, a radiant smile on his face, said, "No problem. I'll meet you at your office at 6:00?"

That in and of itself should've told Booth something. I didn't want Jason at my loft because he didn't know where I lived, and I had no intention of sharing that personal information with him in the near future. But, I knew I couldn't spare my partner even the slightest of looks until Jason was gone.

Instead, I merely plastered a fake smile on my face as I nodded and said, "I'll be there." Even though, in that moment, I hadn't technically lied since I knew I would, in fact, be at the lab tomorrow at 6pm, I had no intention of keeping that appointment. I'd send him an email tomorrow saying that something had come up, and conveniently forget to reschedule until such time as I could have a private discussion with Jason as to why I had no interest in seeing him in the context of possibly pursuing any type of interpersonal relationship.

Then, once again, Jason did something that made me wonder if I should lower Sweets down my list of top annoyances since he leaned across the table and gave me a double air kiss on each cheek. It was over before I'd even realized what had happened, and the only thing I could think of when I realized what he'd done was to know that Booth was going to have a great deal of amusement and enjoyment at my expense. I internally winced as I calculated that I had approximately thirty seconds before Booth began to extract said amusement and enjoyment.

Jason helped me solidify my decision to temporarily demote Sweets to second most irksome individual in my life when he turned to Booth and the young psychologist and said before he left, "Nice meeting you all."

Once he was gone, Booth didn't even last the thirty seconds I'd originally anticipated since he muttered―approximately fourteen seconds after Jason turned to leave―a single word dripping with the caustic discontent that I knew he felt for the archaeobotanist. "Yeah."

_Oh, God, here it comes._

"No wonder you two are platonic," Booth snickered as he watched Jason walked out the diner's front door.

Rolling my jaw from side-to-side, as much because of the way Booth had said things as because of the fact that he was placing me in a position where I had to defend Jason, I replied, "What is that supposed to mean?"

Booth gave me another toothy grin as he raised his hands in supplication and explained, "Well, look, I'm fine with it, Bones, really. I have zero problems with it, but..." His voice trailed off before he looked at me in complete deadpan as he continued, "That guy is gay."

_Oh, for God's sakes._ If I was looking for a textbook example of an alpha male's stereotypical response to being threatened by another beta male, Booth gave it wrapped up in a metaphorical bow as he cast aspersions on Jason's sexuality. I rolled my eyes as I shook my head, more in exasperation at Booth's trite response, than at his insult on Jason's masculinity.

Booth stared at me expectantly, and I finally knew I didn't have a choice as I reluctantly snapped, "He is not gay."

His dark brown eyes widened in surprise at my comments before Booth guffawed, "Please. Double cheek kiss, tight Italian suit..."

Sweets, then making a fast case to be reelevated to my number one slot on the list of social annoyances, again chimed in like a well-timed comedic sidekick would, "Coldplay."

Pleased with himself, Booth smirked as he continued, "Never married..."

"Coldplay," Sweets repeated in the same monotonous voice that sometimes makes me want to smack him upside the head.

My nostrils flared as I suddenly felt as if _I _was being put on the defensive for something I had absolutely no control over. Still, I happened to know for a fact from several other female faculty members in the Anthropology Department at American with whom Jason had gone out and/or had sexual relationships with at one time or another, that he wasn't homosexual. Deciding I had a duty to set the factual record straight, I quickly said, "Jason is as heterosexual as either of you."

"Then how is it that he's okay with not having sex?" Booth suddenly snapped.

My eyes widened a bit at his unexpected outburst. I arched my eyebrow at him as Sweets voiced exactly what I happened to be thinking in that moment.

"What?" he asked.

Now, why would Booth be interested in whom Jason was having sex with? Unless…he wasn't getting this way because he thought Jason wanted to pursue some type of sexual relationship with me, right? I mean, Booth doesn't have an interest in me…like that…at least, I thought he didn't.

He doesn't want me like that…right?

But, if he doesn't, then why would he care about whether Jason was attempting to persuade me to engage in sexual intercourse with him or not? It's not like Booth is a gossip like Angela. He rarely takes an interest in topics of a sexual nature. So, it doesn't make any sense since I haven't even begun to formulate, let alone implement, my plan to make Booth realize that he's attracted to me, I'm attracted to him, and we should act on that attraction for the betterment of our relationship, from both the personal and professional perspectives.

But, why would he say that then? I just don't understand….

And, that was why I suddenly found myself struggling for words as I saw both Booth and Sweets staring at me expectantly to give them some type of appropriate response. Finally, once again caught off guard on a day when I'd been unusually tongue-tied, I told them, "Uhhhh, we share an intellectual bond." Well, that part was certainly true. From an academic perspective, Jason is rather brilliant. "I don't have physical feelings for him." Again, also true. "He understands that." Okay, I was doing fine up until that point. I knew I'd made the mistake with that last sentence as soon as Booth's eyebrows shot up in triumph. It was almost as if he knew I was lying about something, but he just didn't know what it was.

His eyes danced merrily as he snorted, "Not if he's straight." He then turned to Sweets and asked his sidekick for verification, "Right? Am I right?"

Okay, when did Booth and Sweets turn into some type of stand up comedic duo, and I missed the memo on that one? I mean, come on.

Sweets, for his part, suddenly reclaimed his previous spot on my list of social annoyances that Jason had so briefly claimed from him when he nodded in response to Booth's question and said, "You are hot."

Unable to help myself, I let some of my anger radiate in Sweets' direction as I asked him in a very sharp and cutting voice that I usually reserve for my graduate students when I'm displeased with them, "You're here for a reason?"

For once, Sweets had the good grace to blanche as he said, "Ummmm, we got something off the DVDs..."

Meanwhile, Booth, never one to be intimidated by any look, body language, or verbal cue that I possessed, came closer to my table and let his eyes examine the evidence that Jason had left behind on his part of the table.

"Mint tea?" he muttered, the excitement barely contained in his voice, as he sat down in Jason's vacated seat. "Fruit tart?"

_For fuck's sake, Booth._

I was tempted to say that not all men confined their preference to sugary confections to an almost obsessive preference for pies, but bit my tongue.

Hoping that by ignoring him Booth might lose some motivation to continue on his tirade about Jason's sexuality―since I've long ago come to realize that like a child, Booth does lose interest in things when he no longer has an audience―I nodded at Sweets and said, "Okay, speak, Sweets, please."

Swallowing once, Sweets must've known I was off kilter if I was asking for him to voluntarily pontificate on some psychological finding. However, he seemed more pleased to have me recognize his ideas for whatever cause, and so he began to explain, "Okay, okay. Ummm, most of the cheaters were essentially cowards, seeking alternate sexual experiences because they're too afraid to confront the problems in their own lives."

Okay, I'm not certain what I was expecting Sweets to say, but I suppose he hit a metaphorical nerve with his explanation when I was already tired, in a defensive mood, and still in no sight of getting free of Booth for the evening. Unable to help myself, I snapped, "Just because someone seeks an alternative sexual outlet doesn't mean that they're a coward."

As soon as I'd said _those _words, I realized I'd made yet another mistake in a countless string of mistake in what had become my most mistake-filled day in recent memory.

Booth confirmed this assessment when he shot his eyes to look at mine for a brief seconds before he smugly said to Sweets, "She has issues."

"I do _not_ have issues," I retorted, even as I realized that the flushing of my skin and flaring of my nostrils probably let an expert like Booth―skilled in reading an individual's body language when he _wanted _to pay attention to it―know that I was definitely being too defensive for a person without any issues.

Clearly delighted by my response, Booth added in that pompous tone of voice that he'd been using for the last twenty minutes, "Case in point: Deep-sea welder and a botanist."

For his part, the confused look on his face made it clear that Booth hadn't let Sweets in on the latest situation with Mark from this morning. That fact, in and of itself, did give me _some_ small bit of hope since he'd kept it private…at least, up until that point.

Looking from Booth to me and back again, Sweets asked, "What? Did they go into a bar?"

Booth's brow furrowed at Sweets statement. He then shook his head and said, "Huh? What? No." He then quickly added, "Brennan's two boyfriends."

Suddenly, a look of comprehension dawned on Sweets' face as his eyes darted to the door. "Oh, right." He paused and then added, "Let me guess―that one's the botanist?"

Booth, once again pleased with his sidekick's response, nodded effusively as he chuckled, "Yeah."

Deciding that I'd had enough and was going to leave if they didn't get back to the case in a moment, I stood up and stared at Booth. For once, he seemed to note the change in my body language, and he sobered a bit as I spoke. "So you have nothing?" I asked as I clutched my purse under my arm and prepared to leave.

Booth's tone changed instantly as he nodded at Sweets and told him, "Show her."

Reaching into his pocket, Sweets pulled out his smartphone and fiddled with some settings before he handed it to me and explained, "This is Jim Dodd."

I stared at the video for a minute, studying what I was seeing, and not quite certain what to make of it as my brain shifted gears from academic scholar to forensic anthropologist.

Booth seemed to notice my lack of comprehension as he said, "The photograph that you pulled out of O'Roarke's throat? Turns out that Jim Dodd used to be a mall photographer at Tiny Tots Photography."

Sweets nodded, as he added, quite unhelpfully, "Motive and means."

My eyes darted back to Booth's as he again explained, "Yeah. I mean, his landlord said he disappeared five days ago, no forwarding address―"

At last, I grasped what Booth and Sweets thought the significance of their find to be. "And, you think he left because he was planning to kill Bill O'Roarke?" I asked my partner.

He nodded solemnly as he said, "Yeah, it fits, okay? Landlord also said he has a drinking buddy by the name of Chris Gutman. We're looking for him."

While not a completely cognizant reason for tracking me down once I'd left the lab―and, how did he really know I was at the diner, I suddenly wondered―I couldn't but shoot Booth a look. While true he hadn't concocted an excuse for his little display of alpha male dominance with Jason, I was still irked that I'd been shunted to the side while only individuals with a penis and testicles had been important upon their arrival. Again, Booth demonstrated his relatively well-developed skill of being able to read me when he realized the look of displeasure that I shot him even if it wasn't for the reason he probably thought he was receiving it.

"What?" he blinked at me in that way he tries to act all innocent when he hopes to use his charm to diffuse any ire I feel because of him in that current moment.

Deciding that maybe I needed to needle him a bit, I asked, "This couldn't have waited until after I said good night to Jason?"

For once, Booth chose the right time not to give me a smartass response. He lowered his voice, and his gaze softened as he said, "I'm just looking out for you, all right? You don't have the, uhhh, best taste in men."

His seeming concern for me initially touched me for about ten seconds, especially when I contemplated his response to the fact that he thought Mark and Jason were my 'boyfriends'―a very specific point I'd come to realize the significance of only after the fact. But, at that point in time, I could only wonder what he'd say if he knew he was castigating himself with that comment since he was the only man I really wanted in that moment. Still, I couldn't (read: didn't know how) to tell him that point as he sat back in his chair, stuffed his hands in his pockets, and wagged his eyebrows cockily at me. It was then I realized he was snidely insulting me again, and once more exacting a great amount of amusement and enjoyment at my personal expense, as I'd originally feared.

Scowling at him, I remained silent as I decided firmly in that moment―even if I wasn't quite sure how I was going to do it―but I was going to make Booth metaphorically eat those words of his if it was the last thing I ever did. And, then, he'd know the joke was on him.

But, hopefully, once everything was said and done, we'd both have other more…enjoyable things to do to one another than laugh about it. At least, I hoped we would. Now, I just needed to figure out how to make that situation come to pass…especially when, in that moment, it seemed so easier said than done.

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><p><span>-TBC-<span>


	5. Pt V:I Watched the Female Mind In Action

Did Something Really Stupid

By: Lesera128

Rated: M

Disclaimer: stares:: ::blinks:: ::stares again:: Yeah. I still don't own anything…but, you knew that from the stares, right?

Summary: When a person's in lust, it makes them do crazy things. They can't eat, think can't sleep, they can't think straight. In Brennan's case, she acts really, really stupid. This is how she explains herself and tries to make amends. Set during 4x03: Man in the Outhouse. AU.

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><p><span>Part V - I Watched the Female Mind In Action<span>

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><p>The next day, despite a restful, if meager, night's sleep, the situation with Booth was still weighing heavily on my mind. It had been the last thing that I'd thought about before I fell asleep (this time sans Mark) the night before. It had been the first thing I'd thought of this morning when I'd awakened (again, this time, sans Mark). And, it had consumed my thoughts as I'd rolled out of bed, while I'd stumbled into the bathroom to shower and dress, as I'd trudged to my car and driven to Starbucks for a morning indulgence of a Venti Latte, and when I'd finished my morning (if rather brief) commute to the Jeffersonian. I'd say that the only time I <em>hadn't<em> been thinking of Booth was when I was asleep and dreaming. However, that would be a rather inaccurate statement to make on my part since it was quite possible that I actually _had _been dreaming of him, but just didn't remember it.

So, as I walked from my office towards the platform―my thoughts still in what was taking on more than a slightly obsessive tint―I realized that, if perhaps I could get some advice on the situation from another person, it might help broaden my perspective. Then, as I remembered how asinine the situation had become the night before when Sweets unknowingly interjected himself into my love life, I amended my decision. I would talk to the first _female _with whom it would be appropriate for me to discuss the matter. Unfortunately, for her, Cam chose that moment to interrupt me.

After she'd nodded her good morning, and asked if I wouldn't mind taking a detour from the lab's platform to her autopsy suite, I promised myself that I'd at least wait until _after _she'd posed me whatever her question was before I brought up the topic of Booth. Content with that decision, I let out a deep breath as we walked to Cam's private domain. Unfortunately, this time, for me, my mouth again subverted my brain's logical decision. I'm not certain what did it. Perhaps, I was developing some type of disorder in being able to maintain my self-control. Maybe, it was the fact that Angela appeared out of nowhere and suddenly fell into step behind us. Sometimes, Angela's actions seems to lend credence to her claim that some people have inexplicable mental powers. I still don't believe in clairvoyance. But, I'm beginning to believe that she has some type of psychic radar (for lack of a better descriptive term) about when anything of a prurient or sexual nature is about to be discussed in the lab. It seemed as if she'd manifested from out of nowhere―or thin air, to use an inaccurate euphemism. And, her unexpected appearance unsettled me slightly.

Cam got as far as telling me, "I want to show you what I found lodged in Bill O'Roarke's lower intestine" before I spoke.

Somehow, my brain translated that statement as the equivalent of her asking a question and thus having satisfied my stipulation to wait to broach the topic of Booth. Then, in a process that amazes even me, said random part of my brain decided to bring up Booth…even though Cam wanted to talk about professional matters. And, there I was, the usual picture of professionalism, wanting to subvert a discussion that could prove pertinent to solving the O'Roarke homicide investigation. It was wrong…and so unlike me. But, I couldn't help it. It was as if―if I believed in such things, and I really don't―I'd been possessed by some unknown third-party who was making me act in so many uncharacteristic ways.

"I can't understand why Booth has an issue with me seeing two men," I blurted out, gesturing with my arm in what I knew to be a rather exaggerated and slightly melodramatic gesticulation.

Cam took up her customary position at the head of her metal examination table on Bill O'Roarke's body still lay covered with light lab sheet. She moved a microscope closer to the body, smiling as she seemingly contented herself with prepping the piece of evidence she wanted to show me.

For my part, I don't even know why I phrased the statement like that. I suppose, in a way, from a certain perspective, it might be accurate. That is, it might be taken to be truthful if one considered that of the two men I referenced, one had been Mark, and I was definitely finished seeing him. The other man, Booth, I hadn't started yet seeing because he didn't know that's what I wanted to do with him. And, I suppose I should add, I wasn't even certain if he'd agreed to that request on my part. So, even if I'm rationalizing slightly, perhaps my past tense seeing of Mark and my future tense seeing of Booth somehow equated to my present verb tense? At this point, I was having a great deal of difficulty applying logic to what was going on. I would just open my mouth and bad things would happen. It almost makes taking vow of perpetual silence―like some Buddhist monks in Tibet do in order to help focus their chakras and spiritual centerings―seem like a worth-while endeavor for me. If I were silent, at least I could stop putting my metaphorical foot in my mouth, and I might be able to figure out what I was acting more and more erratic as each hour, it seemed, passed. Yes, maybe that was what I definitely needed. Just in case, once I told Booth how I felt about him―and what I wanted from him―well, if that didn't go over in a particularly positive manner, then I'd still need to find another way to recover my balance and ground myself. But, then again…silence. Well, silence and I…it's never gone over very well. That's not to say I don't like silence, because I do. I just…I need to make a note of that so that I can research some meditation techniques and less drastic equivalents since my professional and career make even such a temporary vow of silence all but completely unreaslistic.

For her part, Cam took my rather random statement in stride. It made me wonder if either Angela (somewhat unlikely, since Angela didn't gossip with Cam too much) or Booth (more likely, since she is one of his closet friends) might've said something to her about how strange I'd been acting lately.

"Guys like to think they're the only ones who should sleep with more than one person," she told me in what I found to be a rather surprising, yet sympathetic response.

It was, I admit, a rather interesting comment on her part because it wasn't an outright condemnation of my behavior. And, for some reason, I think that if I expected chastisement from anyone (who wasn't a male) to come down on Booth's side, it would've been Cam. Hmmm….

"They like to be in control," Angela state confidently, in her normally empathetic way as she nodded her agreement with Cam's statement. "Doesn't take a lot to throw the little darlings off their game."

Cam then looked up from the monitor she'd been studying as she added, "Oh, yeah. Then, you end up lying in bed holding them while they say, 'I don't know what's wrong, this has never happened to me before.'"

Again, another unexpected and curious response from Cam. If I didn't know any better, I thought I might be able to insinuate a slight chastisement of Booth since it appeared that her agreement with Angela's included him in the slightly pejorative grouping of men to whom she'd referred to in sarcasm as 'little darlings' also didn't counter that opinion in any way. I tilted my head as I considered Cam's most recent statement. It, too, was intriguing, but for a different reason. I wondered if she was referencing a past experience in which she'd been confronted with a sexual partner who'd suffered impotence before they were about to engage in coitus, or if she was just speaking hypothetically. After thinking about it for a few seconds, I decided that perhaps I should just wait until another moment to ask Angela about the situation in private, lest I inadvertently destroy the rather sympathetic environment of female camaraderie which I'd somehow managed to create by asking my statement.

Deciding it was safest to return to that initial point, I looked from Cam to Angela and back again as I bent over the examination table, even though I didn't yet know what I needed to look at, and sighed. "He should be happy that I've found a way to satisfy myself," I told them. _Particularly since I want to satisfy myself with him_, I added silently. I know I should've tried to tell him that when I saw him at the diner this morning, but it wasn't like we really had a chance to discuss anything but the case.

Almost as an afterthought, as I realized that if I wasn't careful I might let both Cam and Angela in on the fact that I intended to see if Booth was amenable to the idea of pursuing a change in the nature of our relationship, I then said, "It just happens to require two men." I suppose, technically, again, that was an accurate statement if I was going to go with the Mark(Past)+Booth(Future)=Two Men(Present) equation. At least, until I could think of something better that wouldn't take the decision to let Booth contribute to how we would tell our friends and co-workers of the change in the nature of our affiliation―should such a thing come to pass as I so fervently hoped it would―that approach seemed as good as any with which I could go.

Neither Cam nor Angela seemed to have noticed my slight distraction as the forensic pathologist was working with O'Roarke's remains and the other had a rather dreamy look on her face.

"I've done that," Angela finally told me. She had a slightly wistful tone as she added with a sigh and a subtle shake of her head, "I miss college."

Looking up from the slab in front of her, Cam tilted her head and looked at me as she suddenly asked, "And, the botanist?" I hoped I hadn't paled as I suddenly felt a knot in my stomach slightly twist at her question.

So, it was as I suspected. If Cam knew about Jason, there was only two sources from which she could've procured such data,. One such option was Sweets. I considered this possibility for a few seconds and then quickly dismissed it. Cam doesn't gossip that much as is, and when she does, her past behavior dictates that her preferred gossip partners aren't Sweets. Besides, Sweets had come into possession of that data less than fourteen hours earlier. For Cam to have contacted Sweets either so late last night, or so early this morning, would be even more unlikely. That left the second possibility. And, the second possibility was not only in possession of the same information as Sweets, he had a close friendship with Cam that did facilitate such casual conversations, and those conversations could've happened at such unusual times since they have been such good friends for so many years.

And, option two? The second possibility? Why…of course. It was Booth.

_Booth_.

Damn it. Booth was talking to Cam.

But…why? Why would he do that? I don't understand. I just don't get why he would do such a thing.

I was grappling with this latest revelation even as Cam prompted me, "And biological imperative?"

Heh. Amusing. Most amusing. I think she'd given Mark a nickname. 'Biological imperative.' Heh. Maybe Cam does listen to me about non-forensic matters more than I think she does. Heh. Very funny, that.

"He's flirted with the intent to become intimate," I said truthfully. "But, Mark keeps me quite sated sexually." _Or, at least he had until I realized that I want to have sex with my partner._

At this point, Angela took the opportunity to remind Cam and I that she was still a part of the conversation.

"You really got to learn some girl talk, sweetie," Angela began.

My head snapped up at her dual observation and wise counsel as I looked from the remains to greet the warm brown eyes of my best friend. I suspected that she had more advice that she was going to offer me on how to go about participating in and completing these social rituals of female bonding. Given the circumstances, if I could manipulate the conversation so that I could also get her advice on what to do about Booth―or, at least, see if she agreed with the plan I was tentatively forming in my head so that I didn't screw up again―I was quite content to endure her subtle chastisement since I would gain some valuable data.

Quite unluckily, Cam chose that minute to become focused on the O'Roake investigation. It wasn't surprising, really, since the case was the whole reason she'd originally sought me out. Using her forceps, she manipulated a point on O'Roarke's intestines on the high def screen that showed what the high power microscope was showing us. Cam lifted up a small object into the light so that I could see it.

"Okay," she said with a quietly impressed nod. "Look at that."

Taking a step closer, my professional curiosity was piqued, and my thoughts of Booth was temporarily forgotten, as I recognized the item that Cam held in the clutch of her forceps for what it was.

"How did a wire get lodged in his intestine?" Angela asked, the mild disgusted confusion that was present in her voice as she spoke the question I'd been thinking.

"Not sure yet," Cam responded. She moved away from the examination tray and pointed to the computer screen that had the tox screen results displayed on it as she added, "And, the tox screen's even stranger. _Tetrahydrozoline hydrochloride_."

"Eye drops?" I asked for clarification. I wanted to make certain that I'd understood what she was telling me so that I could think about all possible ramifications for the total evidence that we'd so far accumulated.

Cam nodded before she also added, "And, _sildenafil citrate_."

"Viagra," I said with a slight laugh, as I turned to shoot Angela a look. This time I'd made more of a statement and than a question since I definitely knew what that drug was as it was becoming so common as a finding in many of the cases I'd worked with Booth in the last three years. Talk about one of the most overused, if understandable, prescription drugs that people elect to consume.

Angela, as usual, summed it up best when she said, "Bloodshot eyes and wood in a pill." She smiled at her own witty euphemism as she then added, just in case there was any doubt as to her assessment of the situation, "Party time."

I was about to open my mouth to comment on Angela's assessment when the three of us where interrupted by the rather overly boisterous and somewhat overly energetic arrival of what appeared to be a very young woman with brown hair and excited brown eyes.

"Dr. Brennan," she said, her voice high pitched and breathless as she said my name. I tried to avoid cringing, not just in annoyance at having what was a productive conversation in terms of both my personal life and the case, but also but also because of the draining persona that she was projecting. "I'm Daisy Wick, your new grad assistant."

My brow furrowed, as I gave her a look that I knew would convey my clear lack of being impressed by her. I gave it to all my students since one can't be too informal or approachable with first-years. I'd found from watching other professors that one only gets a single chance to establish yourself as a person in a position of authority over graduate students. I was (and never had) wasted mine. That way, I rarely ran into difficulties with the students with whom I continued to work on a long-term basis. It was how I preferred it, and I still believe it makes managing our mentor-mentee/supervisor-supervisee relationship more productive for both of us in the long-run. True, it does tend to give me more of a reputation for aloofness than some other professors. But, as I said, I prefer that. I don't have the time, energy, or inclination to coddle my students. I can't waste my time with those students who need to be micromanaged or be watched all the time as some of my other colleagues choose to treat their students. By engaging in such 'hand-holding', they not only needlessly create more work for themselves, but they also do their students a disservice. It hinders, in my opinion, the crucial skills that graduate students need to develop to survive in the world of academia and in more professional settings, i.e., confidence, independence, initiative, and self-reliance.

That's why I stared at the excitable young woman―in a way that both Angela and Booth have told me is a look I give to people when I see them, but that I'd rather pretend that they weren't there in front of me for one reason or another―and then frowned before I spoke again. Hoping she was adept enough at reading body language that she would take my warning for what it was, when the giddy smile that was on her face failed to disappear, I felt it important to clarify my opinion of her verbally. "I'd rather not learn your name until I've assessed your work," I said. I suppose because I was attempting to be less brunt, I didn't speak the rest of the thought that accompanied my verbal remark: that I doubted I'd have to learn her name because I didn't think she had the bearing or mindset to be able to last for any significant or substantial period of time in the lab. Or, in plain English as Booth is so fond of translating my thoughts, words, and actions into common parlance: I didn't think she'd last very long as my intern.

However, despite my veiled warning to her, the young woman still had a look of awe on her face as she responded, "Oh, of course. I'm the same way." She didn't pause even long enough to take a substantial breath before she leaned in, nodded at me with what seemed to be almost a conspiratorial wink in her eye as she added, "We're two of a kind. You're like a hero to me."

I blinked at her, not quite believing the idiocy I was hearing fall away from her lips as I finally deepened my frown into what I knew to be as close to a Booth-like scowl as possible. Then, I told her with what I knew to be a very clear tinge of displeasure in my voice, "Hero worship exposes a lack of independent intellectual examination."

There, that was it. She was dismissed. Deciding that I'd spent enough time on the strange woman, I turned back to Cam and Angela with a nod, "I'll tell Booth what we found."

For once, the issue of how to handle the situation with Booth was pushed from my mind. Between the new development in the O'Roarke investigation and the rather unsettling meeting with the new graduate assistant, unfortunately, I couldn't spare him any more time. Personal matters would have to wait―at least for now.

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><p>-<span>TBC<span>-


End file.
